Monday, January 6, 2014

The might of the wooden spoon

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My two recent posts on
friends and music were the result of some recent musings on what I have
learned to appreciate in my 74 years on God’s green earth.(I like the term “musings”.It sounds so much more scholarly and
intellectual than ruminating or pondering; I must remember to use it more often
to describe my ruminating and pondering.)This small story explains how I came to appreciate the might of my
mother’s wooden kitchen spoon.

My mother never laid a
hand on me.The few times when
corporal punishment was deemed a necessity to assure my development into a
stable and well balanced adult, a small wood spoon would somehow appear in her
hand.I remember clearly one such
incident.I was four or five years
old, and the dastardly deed, of which I have no recollection, apparently
warranted the spoon.I was
standing at one end of the dinning room table and she was at the other end, the
spoon clearly visible in her hand.“Come here” she said quietly, and when I didn’t move she said it again,
increasing the gravity in her voice one or two notches.Now even at that young age I was
perceptive, and I knew this was not going to end well for me.Running from her would not work, I
tried that once and hit my head on the table, nor could I convince her that she
was mistaken in her interpretation of the events leading up to this
confrontation.So I did what any
bright and doomed young boy would do; I shamelessly pleaded and begged for
forgiveness, vowing that I would never, ever do it again – whatever it was I
did.I promised I would be a good
boy forever and ever.

All to no avail.

It is difficult to imagine this tiny lady yielding a wooden spoon. Today I can only imagine how she had to struggle to keep from laughing as her distraught boy tried desperately to plead his way to safety.